there’s cobwebs

on your side of the bed.

not the same bed,

across state lines

in a town by the coast

where no one knows our names.

I am afraid to disturb them,

to make a space as unfillable 

as the miles between my window

and the haunting moon.

I am afraid most days,

as memory slides into silk shadows

lurking on the edges of rest

like cobwebs

on your side

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to pass you by is to long

for you close, lips sweet despite her

claim’s acrid taste. you wave.

your wandering hand runs up my thigh like

vines cling to ancient stone structures.

we make a sick picture, half-past-drunk

on years of tension, crushed

between mouths and confession in the dark.

you look at me as though

i might not run laps around the room

in hopes of catchi...

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promise me, darling,

when you’ve moved out and moved on

when this endless summer

becomes a misty-edged memory,

promise that you won’t forget me.

fall into an easy love with some girl

who deserves you more than i ever could,

but promise when you look in her eyes

that sometimes you’ll see a glimmer

of me in her, and you’ll wonder

what i look like now, what i’m doing,

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seconds and moments are wrapped around my eyes,

a blindfold tied in a neat knot at the back of my skull,

the yellow feeling i crave again.

touch my hand, brush my cheek, lift my chin for a kiss

oh mistress memory, pull me in like a lover.

i am a slave to her delights, the caress of yesterday

is intoxicating. even her heartaches taste sweet,

the hurt transfixed on someone, some...

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i don’t believe in magic.

the same way i don’t believe 

in love

or god

or decaf.

the same way i don’t believe

in myself, most days, or 

the steadiness of my fingers

before i reach the next line.

i am a nonbeliever who still sits in the pews

praying for miracles between clenched teeth.

i am a monument to the sanctity of sundays

weak after week after week.

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i remember i did, once. i must have wanted.

i want to look at him and not feel

hot hands, the fresh red blood

starting to spill from wounds i can’t see

yet still manage to keep opening.

i feel the shift, the crack, reduced to a moment,

oppressive heat pressing closer than skin.

take me into your arms, save me

from helplessness i dare not repeat.

i wish i could want it ag...

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hair falls over her shoulders, begs to be

swept behind her porcelain ear. the rose blooms

dotting the ridge of her cheeks beckon you

with all the allure of youth dripping heady from her brow.

see not the tenuous wire wrapping femininely

around each wrist and ankle, another

finds its home cutting into her white neck.

her cool fingertips graze your skin. her eyes shine

in the...

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the blood-soaked sparrow that lives in my chest

throws itself again with new vigor against

the bars of her cage, demanding a voice. i scream

that hers is my voice, that every turn 

is on account of her 

feathery fingers flying over the keys

until my legs have no choice but to move as she bids.

the copywriter that lives behind my eyeballs is on strike.

long nights at th...

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humanity was rigged for obsolescence.

consume to be consumed

by the greed grandfathered into the green

of your eden, your infernal birthright.

see, now, as the old growth turns to lumber,

as the Pacific runs black with the blood

of the dying mother. her veins are merely

obstacles to profit, the pipelines of man

poison her knowingly, gleefully. enslave, envy, extract

ever...

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it’s like sleeping standing up. 

or drowning in the dessert

aisle of wal-mart, clinging to life

one mini-pint at a time. see only

the saccharine streetlights that walk you home,

not the smog-smeared halos they wear.

wake up to the same yellow countenance 

that kissed the face of man when earth was free.

if they could sell sunshine, they’d bury you in it.

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it’s been a long time

since i’ve heard the universe sing to me.

the upshoots under my feet are wilted,

the air is stifling my eyes and throat,

i cannot see the flames but i hear

their crackling cackle as glass reality chips away.

i listen for birds; maybe they will lift me out;

none come.

the sky is empty with fire.

i wonder if dinosaurs ever felt suicidal.

if i ...

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soon the ape must return to its cage, 

though they long for the sun to warm their fur

and the breeze to fill their nostrils.

the streets are alive with blood and violence,

the singed edges of the empire beginning to 

run toward the center of the page.

there are lights, and music as present as the air,

and the ape longs for all of it with equal fervor.

an animal wants nothin...

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lately i’ve been thinking a lot about writing.

not doing much of it, of course.

thinking about all the people, from the beginning of our time

simple animals who invented language 

because the pressure of having too many thoughts

with no way to bring them beyond your teeth

was too devastating, too lonely.

i think about those people sitting in a huge room,

saying nothing, wri...

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